


yesterday is today and tomorrow is an eternity

by Ceryna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN, Alternate Universe - Edge of Tomorrow Fusion, Blood and Gore, Heavy Angst, Injury, Lots and Lots of Death, M/M, Time Loop, Violence, but also slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23710009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: I shouldn’ be alive righ’ now.The usual joking sentiment that lingers under that statement has been washed away. Pale blue flashes of pulsar rounds swim behind his eyelids, inhuman chittering echoes in his eardrums. Atsumu’s been summoned to MSBY HQ, all the way from the Inarizaki unit in Hyogo– and in a matter of hours, he’ll be dead.---This AU is approximately 62% Edge of Tomorrow, 17% Pacific Rim, and 21% my imagination. Story starts off Atsumu-POV heavy. Please mind the rating, warnings, and tags.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. DAY ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syailendra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syailendra/gifts).
  * Inspired by [a day to remember a day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503825) by [isaksara (syailendra)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syailendra/pseuds/isaksara). 



> I thought my next project was going to be a neat mythos oneshot, but then I rewatched Pacific Rim with the discord squad and my sci-fi brain rose from its slumber and is now on. If there’s an off switch, I don’t know where it is. 
> 
> **ABOUT THE AU:**
> 
> As suggested in the summary, this AU is, at its core, an _Edge of Tomorrow_ AU - in which humanity is fighting against aliens called _mimics_ , some of which have an ability that allows them to control time - aka “reset the day.” When this ability is transferred to humans, there’s a caveat: only the person with the ability retains their memories of the day afterwards, and they must die at the end of each day to keep the power.
> 
> There are a few twists to the base concept: for one, the body armor is heavily inspired by Pacific Rim, and while the ability’s existence is highly classified within human troops, it has been studied + accepted beyond what’s expressed in the film. For more context, you can watch the movie trailer [here](https://www.imdb.com/video/vi3591679257?playlistId=tt1631867&ref_=tt_ov_vi).
> 
> The nature of this AU is a repetitive one. As you move through the story, some pieces of text will be the same - as I work to establish context - and some will be woven with new bits and details. It’s written this way on purpose, so please bear with me!
> 
> Sfdfdggggf SHOUTOUT AND MANY THANKS TO ISA!! this au would not be here without you. 💙

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Miya Atsumu, reportin’ for _fuck knows._ Would someone tell me why m’here an’ not with my unit in Hyogo?”

The humming whir of the hovercraft engine echoes in Atsumu’s brain long after he’s left the tarmac. Ocean air fills his lungs– a final taste of freedom before he’s roped into whatever mission he’s been tasked with this time.

His superiors haven’t been forthcoming about this one. It isn’t a surprise, not with the world being in the middle of an intergalactic war– but the fact that he was pulled from the already elite Inarizaki unit as a special request has goosebumps ghosting over the skin under his uniform sleeves. Lightning zings down his spine, keeping it tight as a ramrod as he’s escorted inside the base.

The entourage behind him is a professional courtesy– an unnecessary one. Recruits that green should be in the practice arenas, running combat sims until they’re fit to be armored up. And then running the frontline sims _with_ the armor to get used to its weight.

Synthetic metals have come a long way since Atsumu joined the ranks a lifetime ago. Fusing compounds from mimic endoskeletons and marrow with existing elements led to production of specialty grade body armor for the all-Japan defense forces. 

The hiss of doors sliding back and whisper of uniform sleeves as recruits salute indicate that Atsumu has, first of all, finally arrived at the meeting location– and second, that he’s missed the time to offer a half-assed salute of his own. _Oops._

Five others are in the room, decked out in the standard defense-force issued combat underlayer. It’s more informal than Atsumu was expecting… maybe he’ll be spared a complaint. But his lips twinge into a grimace as he hears Kita mentally chastise him from several islands away. 

_I shoulda still saluted. ‘S polite, n all– but tha’s never been my forte. Put me in charge of a chessboard an’ I’ll find a way to ignore mosta the rules an’ still win._

“Miya Atsumu, reportin’ for _fuck knows._ Would someone tell me why m’here an’ not with my unit in Hyogo?” 

His greeting is received with coughs and some raised eyebrows. Atsumu doesn’t have to look at the baby recruits to know they’re dinner-plate-eyed and red-cheeked. “Don’ hack up a lung on my accoun’,” he drawls, slouching out of his rigid stance and crossing his arms over his chest. “S’not every day ya get invited ta MSBY HQ. Ya need me fer a mission or wha’?”

Of the two dark-haired men, the shorter one steps forward. Against all odds, he’s got a bit of a smile etched into the creases of his eyes– but it doesn’t reach his mouth. Not that Atsumu would expect it to with their lives on the line. 

“Miya.” He speaks with Kita’s calm, authoritative manner, but more heavily. As if the burden he shoulders as the squadron leader is so much heftier than Kita makes it seem. “Meian Shugo. Black Jackals’ Captain.”

Atsumu shakes Meian's hand, carefully extracting his fingers from callused iron. "So, Cap'n Meian. Wha' can I do for tha Black Jackals?" The squad name falls from his lips tinged with skepticism bordering on disdain. "Got somethin' ta do with yer sixth?" 

Seven cots span the room beyond this one, and two of them show no signs of being occupied– a gunmetal grey backpack sits on the maroon blanket on the end of one cot, and Atsumu deduces the other, completely untouched one is his. 

“Mhmm.” The man Atsumu only knows as MSBY’s _beam weapon_ pipes in from off to Atsumu’s right. “Sakusa’s off preparing for his mission. We’re on standby for an extraction if things go to hell.” He cracks a blinding grin, coming up beside Meian and resting his elbow on Meian’s shoulder. “Bokuto Koutarou, artillery and weapons specialist.” 

One of Atsumu’s eyebrows shifts up a fraction. “I’ve heard of ya.” The name _Sakusa_ clicks in the back of his mind, rustling up an image of a tall, bony dude with a black face mask. “Steel Bastard’s goin’ on another mish?”

“Don’t call him that,” the short, sandy-haired one scoffs. “To his face, anyway.” He offers Atsumu a smile– in contrast to Meian, this smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Inunaki. The Crane.”

The alias means nothing to him, so Atsumu juts his chin in a sharp nod and turns to the last two men. 

“Tomas Adriah.” His tone is quiet, small, despite his outward appearance. “Guard, frontline defense.” He jerks his thumb to his left, and the last man offers a wave. “Barnes is our rear guard.”

Atsumu sighs. “Good ta meetcha.” He manages a soft inhale, masking the nerves spiking under his skin. “‘d say _nice,_ but ya know tha’s a load of shi’– so, extraction. Gemme up ta speed.”

Meian strides to the table in the center of the room, powering up the console with the press of a button. Holographic data springs to life: a map of Tokyo with marked coordinates, surrounded by charts and text. “HQ picked up signals originating around Haneda.” He zooms in on the map, selecting the hotspot and sending the graphic over to Atsumu with a push of his finger. “It’s strong and stationary, so they’ve sent Sakusa– our best stealth operative– to investigate and eliminate the threat.”

Atsumu expands the map, clawing into the image with gloved fingers and stretching it out to view the underground. Semi-collapsed subway tunnels, concrete debris held together by mimic webs… it’s a risky endeavor to get in and out unseen, especially without bringing shards of the city down on his head. “My specialties’re strategy and close combat, not stealth. I can do sneaky, but s’never subtle.” 

“Once Sakusa’s killed the targets, the stealth element will likely be gone.” Tomas shrugs, tapping an article to expand it and flicking it over to Atsumu to read. 

A glance confirms it’s the mission brief– Atsumu barely skims it before flicking it back. “So sneaky and unsubtle is how yer plannin’ ta get ‘im out alive.” He sighs, the collar of his uniform itching against his neck. “A’ least now I know why I’m reportin’ all the way out here. Who’s go’ tha honor of showin’ me ‘round?”

“That’d be me, Tsum-tsum!” Bokuto slings a ridiculously buff arm around Atsumu’s shoulders, nudging his daypack as he steers him over to the cots. “You can set that down here, and then we’ll get you over to the arena for your gear.”

The itch creeps down to Atsumu’s fingers, digging under the nails in adrenaline-influenced excitement. “I get new gear?” 

“Hell yeah!” Bokuto shoots Atsumu a grin so genuine he’s almost alarmed. “MSBY does not disappoint.”

“Lemme see if I can shave some time off my sim record.” An answering grin curves the corner of Atsumu’s mouth up sharply, exposing teeth to air. “Gemme geared up.”

# ***

Synthetic metal covers Atsumu like a second skin. Shielded by a blend of manmade tech and the bones of the aliens he’s trained years to kill, he folds himself into the _Shell–_ the weaponized outer layer of armor, with slim-fitting energy cannons buried in the shoulders and hover engines compressed beneath his feet and over his scapulae. 

Swords are hidden beside his shins, featherlight and lethally sharp. Extra pulsar ammunition rests against his outer thighs with more at his waist for easy reloading. Long, chopstick-thin spikes fan around his wrists, insulating bones and ready to deploy with the twitch of a finger. 

Atsumu’s left hand grips the barrel of a modified ion rifle, fastened to his body with a thin, leather holster. His weapon of choice is powerful, unsubtle, and a familiar weight as he stands on the drop ship at– he checks the peripheral of his helmet– almost two in the morning. 

Unlike the reassuring chatter of the Inarizaki squad before a mission, MSBY is carefully quiet.

Atsumu supposes that as one of the public faces of the war, the seriousness sinks in differently here. “Ya better lighten up, alrigh’?” he drawls, even as the hovership radar pings that they’re approaching their destination. “Trust tha’ Sakusa’s doin’ ‘is job. We’ll bail ‘im outta hell, an’ ya got me ta help ya.”

His remark is met with weary but kind gazes and the blinding smile of one Bokuto Koutarou– who taps the side of his helmet over his comm and says something on a channel that Atsumu can’t hear. After a moment, his voice pops back in, clear and crisp against the otherwise eerie silence. “Keiji says thanks for having our backs.” 

Atsumu heard all about Keiji, one of the Black Jackals’ personal medics, earlier that evening while he picked up his new gear. “S’no trouble.” He rolls his shoulders, warming up the muscles as the bay doors hiss open, flooding the cabin with cool air. Kita’s reassurance falls from his mouth out of habit– but he tacks his own spin on the end to mark it as his. “There’s no poin’ in bein’ nervous. Trouble’s gonna find us, so let’s give it righ’ back.”

With learned fearlessness, he steps backwards out of the bay doors and into a freefall. Coordinates light up at the edges of his vision, the thin, unobtrusive grid of a map directing him to his designated landing point. He dives down past the cloud line and into the Tokyo Dead Zone– the portion of the city long declared unlivable due to damage from mimic attacks. 

The roads and buildings here have since been reduced to jagged crevasses, opening up into the network of underground passages and subway tunnels framed by dilapidated concrete– abandoned, left to be overridden by grass and sand, eroded by the saltwater from which the land was stolen. 

Small hisses of the Shell’s hover engines slow his descent to a crawl, bringing his feet to whisper against ashy asphalt. “‘ve touched down. Approachin' the entry poin’, over.” 

“Mimic signatures rising to your east, Atsu,” Inunaki’s voice erupts through the comm. “Fifty klicks and closing in fast.”

Atsumu powers up his shoulder cannons. Thin spires of metal emerge from his Shell, glowing pale blue as he nestles the stock of his ion rifle into the groove where his arm meets his shoulder. “How many?” He’s fine to rely on the Shell’s sights for long distance, and the ion cartridges thrum within the barrel. The safety has long since been turned off.

“Cluster of twelve.” Inunaki’s voice is unwavering. “We’re in position to intercept, but expect at least four to make it to you.”

“Lemme know when yer clear. Over an’ out.” 

Ripples spout on the ocean surface, like waves– but mimics are far more sentient and deadly than seafoam. Shots echo in the distance as the Jackals open fire, energy sizzling on the moonlit horizon. 

The energy cannons blast pulseshots at three blurs that swim closer to the sand beneath Atsumu’s feet. One blur collapses beneath black waves. He levels the ion rifle, fingers closing over the trigger and deploying burst sprays towards spindling limbs and ocean froth. Inhuman chittering scrapes into his ears, blotting out the thunder of his pulse in his head that lets him know he’s alive– so he _moves._

He steps into a lunge before leaping up, hover engines around his feet surging him closer to the extraction point– where he’s supposed to meet Sakusa. After ensuring his path is clear, he whirls a one-eighty back to the beach, firing ion bursts like deadly confetti at the mimics on his tail.

A shrill scream erupts from one of them, successfully damaged beyond repair– but Atsumu has no time to watch it collapse lifeless into sand, not when there’s still a mimic, airborne and chasing him down. Snakelike limbs race after him, snarling around his ankle and throwing him into the clutches of gravity. 

His back thuds into earth, a precious second lost as he jackknifes to his feet, deploying spikes from one wrist while the other deploys the sonar sword beside his left calf. The hilt jolts into his waiting palm, and he flicks his wrist, joint rolling the blade up, up, until it slides through spiny flesh, splattering acidic blood over his helmet.

Stumbling back from the corpse, he yanks the compartment over his head and flings it away from him– even with acid resistance, he’s still wary– and inhales sharply through his nose, salt and mimic blood stinging the back of his throat. His gaze slides to his right, spying movement–

Rolling to his left, he slings his ion rifle back into his right hand and leaps up, _up,_ sailing into the night sky as the sand below him ruptures into a mimic’s silhouette. He turns in an arc, glimpsing a whisper of armor, a shadow that just might be this Sakusa he’s heard so much but barely anything about– and fires pale, white pulses into blue-tinted writhing limbs beneath him. 

The mimic growls, reeling to the left to avoid the blasts and shoots its tail up like a harpoon, puncturing his Shell at the base of his spine. 

Atsumu can’t feel anything beyond the agony that explodes in his body. Just as his fighting style has evolved to take down mimics, they too have adapted to withstand all he has to offer– 

But as his vision crumbles black to match the waves below, he futzes the trigger of the ion rifle sharply to the left, splitting open the cartridge to discharge pure energy like a grenade. The blast obliterates the mimic below, and Atsumu follows it into oblivion. Acidic blood spatters over him, into his mouth– burning him, burning the world away as the echo of his pulse in his head falls silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you’re enjoying the story so far(^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, if you like the story and characterization, or the ouch ranking on a 1-10 scale;;; ^^'
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


	2. DAY TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atsumu’s mind lurches and snaps back in an elastic twang that zings lightning up his spine– a twinge of knowledge about what words will be spoken, the names of the men around him, despite the fact he’s never met them before.

Atsumu wakes to the humming whir of a hovercraft engine and ocean air in his lungs. He’s on his feet, having nodded off while waiting to be escorted to a meeting that will hopefully shed some light on why he’s been called all the way to MSBY HQ. His superiors have been suspiciously quiet about his assignment to Tokyo.

“They’re ready for you, Miya,” a cadet says, fingers moving rapidly across a tablet before powering off the screen and holding the door open.

_Fuckin’ finally._ Habit keeps his footfalls even, spine ramrod straight as he’s ushered deeper into MSBY HQ. He doesn’t need the flank guard at his back– recruits that green should be in the practice arenas, running combat sims until they’re fit to be armored up. And then running the frontline sims _with_ the armor to get used to its weight.

It’s a burden that Atsumu has learned to bear in troubling times. An intergalactic war in which aliens’re trying to destroy the human race _really_ puts things into perspective. 

Doors slide back with a whisper of air, cloth of uniform sleeves hissing as recruits salute– indicating that Atsumu missed his opportunity to appear professional. He’s tempted to snap his arm up, just to satisfy Kita’s nagging voice in the back of his head, but ultimately decides against it. 

_Politeness s’never been my forte. If ya put me in charge of a chessboard, ’ll find a way ta ignore mosta the rules an’ still win._

“Miya Atsumu, reportin’ for _fuck knows._ Would someone tell me why m’here an’ not with my unit in Hyogo?” 

His greeting is met with coughs and some raised eyebrows. Atsumu doesn’t have to look at the baby recruits to know they’re dinner-plate-eyed and red-cheeked. “Don’ hack up a lung on my accoun’,” he drawls, slouching out of his rigid stance and crossing his arms over his chest. “S’not every day ya get invited ta MSBY HQ. Ya need me fer a mission or wha’?”

Of the two dark-haired men, the shorter one steps forward. “Miya.” He speaks with Kita’s calm, authoritative manner, but more heavily– as if the burden he shoulders as the squadron leader is so much heftier than Kita makes it seem.

But as Meian opens his mouth to introduce himself, Atsumu’s mind lurches and snaps back in an elastic twang that zings lightning up his spine– a twinge of knowledge about what words will be spoken, the names of the men around him, despite the fact he’s never met them before.

“Yer Meian,” is what falls from his traitorous mouth. “Cap’n of tha Black Jackals.” He extends his hand out to shake, his fingers momentarily encased in callused iron. 

“That’s right,” Meian says. A tired sort-of smile is etched into the lines of his eyes– but it doesn’t reach his mouth. “Welcome to MSBY HQ.”

_Thanks_ is not an appropriate response, but Atsumu says it anyway. “Than’s, I guess.” His fingers tangle together at his side in a nervousness he doesn’t fully understand. “So, wha' can I do for tha Black Jackals?" The squad name falls from his lips tinged with skepticism bordering on disdain. "Got somethin' ta do with yer sixth?"

“Mhmm.” MSBY’s _beam weapon_ – Bokuto– pipes in from Atsumu’s right. “Sakusa’s off preparing for his mission. We’re on standby for an extraction if things go to hell.” He cracks a blinding grin, coming up beside Meian and resting his elbow on Meian’s shoulder. “Bokuto Koutarou, artillery and weapons specialist.” 

“I’ve heard of ya.” The name _Sakusa_ clicks in the back of Atsumu’s mind, rustling up an image of a tall, bony dude with a black face mask– along with a whisper of shadows that skitters goosebumps over his skin under his uniform. “Steel Bastard’s goin’ on another mish?”

The shorter, sandy-haired man scoffs. “Don’t call him that–” he pauses, then smiles with charisma that doesn’t reach his eyes. “To his face, anyway. I’m Inunaki.”

“Tha Crane,” Atsumu’s brain supplies. He feels an eyebrow shoot up 'cause _how tha hell do I know tha’_ –

Inunaki mirrors the gesture, eyes lighting up. “You’ve heard of _me?_ That’s a first.”

Atsumu shrugs, pasting a smile to his face and hoping it’s sharp enough to ward away questions. He turns to the last two men, their names on the tip of his tongue– and bites down against the strangeness coiling in his gut. 

“Tomas Adriah,” says the taller of the two. His tone is quiet, small… not matching his towering demeanor. “Guard, frontline defense.” He jerks his thumb to his left, and the last man offers a wave. “Barnes is our rear guard.”

“Good ta meetcha.” Atsumu shifts his weight to his other foot, hopefully masking the nerves spiking under his skin. “‘d say _nice,_ but ya know tha’s a load of shi’– so, extraction. Gemme up ta speed.”

Meian strides to the table in the center of the room, powering up the console with the press of a button. Holographic data springs to life: a map of Tokyo with marked coordinates, surrounded by charts and text. “HQ picked up signals originating around Haneda.” He flicks the map to zoom in, taps the hotspot and sends the graphic over to Atsumu with another push of his finger. “It’s strong and stationary, so they’ve sent Sakusa– our best stealth operative– to investigate and eliminate the threat.”

Atsumu claws into the image with gloved fingers and stretches it out to view the underground. Semi-collapsed subway tunnels and concrete debris form shards of a city that millions once called home. “My specialties’re strategy and close combat, not stealth.” A creeping familiarity itches the back of his neck, spiderwebbing down his vertebrae. “I can do sneaky, but s’never subtle.” 

“Once Sakusa’s killed the targets, the stealth element will likely be gone.” Tomas shrugs, selecting a document and flicking it over for Atsumu to read. 

Atsumu knows it’s the mission brief before it appears in front of him, black fine print glaring against a crisp, white background. Still, he skims it, gut roiling as he flicks it away from him. “So, sneaky and unsubtle is how yer plannin’ ta get ‘im out alive.” He sighs, fingers untangling from his side to dig into his sleeves as he crosses his arms once more. “A’ least now I know why I’m reportin’ all tha way out here. Who’s go’ tha honor of showin’ me ‘round?”

“That’d be me, Tsum-tsum!” Bokuto slings a ridiculously buff arm around Atsumu’s shoulders, steering him over to the cots. “You can set your pack down here, and then we’ll get you over to the arena for your gear.”

“I get new gear?” The promise of the latest and greatest battle tech is almost enough to unwind the eerie silk of déjà vu at his throat– but still it clings, even as a grin curves up the corners of his mouth. “Lemme see if I can shave some time off my sim record.” He knocks his fist against Bokuto’s, the forced bravado tasting acrid in his mouth. “Gemme geared up.”

# ***

Synthetic metal covers Atsumu like a second skin. Shielded by a blend of manmade tech and the bones of the aliens he’s trained years to kill, he folds himself into the _Shell–_ the weaponized outer layer of armor, with slim-fitting energy cannons buried in the shoulders and hover engines compressed over his scapulae and beneath his feet. 

Engineered to be non-reflective and somewhat acid-resistant, it’s the best balance between defensive capabilities and offensive power. Even with featherlight swords hidden beside his shins, electric wristguards held together with chopstick-thin spikes, and extra pulsar ammunition embedded around his thighs and waist, he still prefers the familiar weight of his modified ion rifle. 

Powerful and unsubtle as all fuck, it’s slung across his body with a thin, leather holster and defense-issue carabiners. This way he won’t lose it if he needs to swap for other weapons, and it’s flexible enough to be used with his left hand if his right is busy with something else– a sonar sword, perhaps. 

He checks the peripheral of his helmet to find small, grey numbers in the upper right of the screen– they confirm that it’s almost two in the morning. The drop ship shudders under his feet as he glances around at the other Black Jackals. Unlike the reassuring chatter of the Inarizaki squad before a mission, MSBY is carefully quiet. 

The radar pings that they’re approaching their destination. 

“Ya better lighten up, alrigh’?” Atsumu drawls. “Trust tha’ Sakusa’s doin’ ‘is job. We’ll bail ‘im outta hell, an’ ya got me ta help ya.”

Bokuto offers him a thumbs up. He raps the side of his helmet, mouth moving silently on a comm channel before switching back so Atsumu can hear. “Keiji says thanks for having our backs.” 

“S’no trouble.” Atsumu rolls his shoulders, warming up the muscles as bay doors open and cool air floods the cabin. “There’s no poin’ in bein’ nervous,” he says, Kita’s usual reassurance falling from his lips out of habit. But he continues, ending with words of his own. “Trouble’s gonna find us, so let’s give it righ’ back.”

He steps backwards out of the bay doors and into a freefall with learned fearlessness. Coordinates light up at the edges of his vision, the thin, unobtrusive grid of a map directing him to his designated landing point. He flies past the cloud line, descending into the Tokyo Dead Zone– a concrete jungle overridden by grass and sand, filled with a maze of tunnels and parts of it flooded with saltwater. 

Atsumu activates his Shell’s hover engines, descent slowing to a halt as his feet touch down on ashen asphalt. “M’on tha ground. Approachin’ the entry poin’, over.” But his eyes are drawn to the moonlit horizon, watching for the mimics he knows are beyond it. 

“Mimic signatures rising to your east, Atsu,” Inunaki announces through the comm. “Fifty klicks and closing in fast.”

Shoulder cannons rise from his Shell, glowing pale blue as they charge. The stock of his ion rifle finds its home next to his shoulder. “How many?” he asks, tongue darting between his teeth– catching on molars and spilling droplets of copper as the word _twelve_ pops into his mind on a gleaming, unsteady platter. 

“Cluster of twelve.” Inunaki’s voice is unwavering as he delivers icy dread directly into Atsumu’s gut. “We’re in position to intercept, but expect at least four to make it to you.”

“Open fire on my mark.” Meian’s voice is calm and battle-worn as it echoes in the comm channel. “Sakusa’s on his way.”

“Roger tha’.” Atsumu’s finger closes over the trigger of his ion rifle, safety long since flicked off. “Lemme know when yer clear. Over an’ out.”

The surface of the ocean erupts into ripples, seafoam cresting into waves– but mimics are far more sentient and deadly than seafoam. Shots echo in the distance as the Jackals open fire, energy sizzling at the edges of his vision. 

Atsumu detonates his shoulder cannons, blasting pulseshots at three blurs that race over saltwater towards him. Blue-white flares blare over black waves, striking one mimic to send it collapsing beneath them. Leveling the ion rifle, he sends spray after spray of pulsar ammunition at spindling limbs and ocean froth. His pulse– that thundering in his ears that lets him know he’s alive– is overwritten by inhuman chittering. 

He steps into a lunge, scanning to clear a path and powering on his hover engines, leaping up and surging closer to the extraction point– the gaping maw of a sea-cave framed by jagged, rocky teeth. While midair, he fires more ion bursts, sprinkling deadly confetti at the mimics on his tail. 

One of them looses a shrill scream as its hit, crippling into sand– but there’s no time to confirm it’s truly dead, not when there’s still an airborne mimic chasing him down. His gut roils, then, urging him to blast half a meter higher than he intends– snakelike limbs race after him, narrowly missing his ankle. Operating on instinct, he aims his left hand at the mimic, flicking his wrist to deploy the spikes.

The thin chopsticks flare out, casting a crackling net of energy that slices through the mimic, tearing it to smithereens. Acidic blood splatters over his visor. 

Atsumu’s feet _thud_ into sand. He rips off his helmet, whirling as his eyes chase movement he hears but doesn’t see. Tracing it to two more mimics approaching from the sea, he rolls to his left to avoid a spray of acid, deploying two ammo reloads– swapping one into his ion rifle and tossing the other at the mimics. 

His eyes follow the arc, index finger closing on the ion rifle trigger. One shot detonates the cartridge like a grenade, mimics swallowed up with white fire. 

_“You.”_

An unfamiliar voice flows over the comm channel. 

The heated blowback from the blast forces Atsumu to take a step back. Blinking against the blaze, his eyes dart left to a murmur of a shadow– the Steel Bastard himself. 

The blade of a sonar sword rests on his shoulder, an ion rifle holstered to his back. His helmet is cracked over his visor, dark blood spattered over the jaw of his Shell. “Who’re you?”

There’s no time for Atsumu to give a proper answer. “Get to yer team,” he shouts, firing his energy cannons behind him at where he hears sand rustle. Acidic blood explodes over him, drenching the back of his neck, seeping into his Shell and eroding through it in a matter of seconds _._

He yells as the pain sears him, rolling into the numbing fire of adrenaline as he pushes himself up onto his knees– only to shatter back to Earth. Acid– and a scarred, bleeding mimic– drag him back to eat him alive. His vision goes glassy, rapidly fading to white as his pulse– that fragile little thing– is stifled into silence.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you’re enjoying the story so far(^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, if you like the story and characterization, or the ouch ranking on a 1-10 scale;;; ^^'
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


	3. DAY THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doors slide open in a hiss, fabric swishing as Atsumu misses his chance to offer a half-assed salute– _again. ___

Atsumu wakes to the humming whir of a hovercraft engine, ocean air in his lungs, and copper in his mouth. He’s tugged conscious on his feet, spine zinging ramrod as lightning jolts down it. His fingers close over the barrel of the ion rifle sitting behind his shoulder.

_I shouldn’ be alive righ’ now._

The usual joking sentiment that lingers under that statement has been washed away. Pale blue flashes of pulsar rounds swim behind his eyelids and inhuman chittering echoes in his eardrums. He’s been summoned to MSBY HQ, all the way from his unit in Hyogo– in a matter of hours, he’ll be dead.

A cadet clears their throat, swiping off a tablet screen and holding open the door. “They’re ready for you, Miya.”

He’s escorted from the room, flanked by too-green recruits. Two lefts and a right, down a flight of stairs– each footfall seems too practiced, his steps too familiar as blood stings the back of his throat, draining metallic as he swallows. A walking rumor is what he is, a _rumor_ of a legend of mimic ability transference.

A hope that’s long haunted the all-defense force troops, promises of an essential weapon they need to win this war. _But who coul’ I tell, tha’ woul’ trust me an’ not dissect me?_

Doors slide open in a hiss, fabric swishing as Atsumu misses his chance to offer a half-assed salute– _again._ He steps inside. Five somewhat familiar faces peer back at him, a mild reassurance that does nothing to the fear snarling under his collarbones, dragging claws inside his ribs. 

“Miya Atsumu, reportin’ for _fuck knows._ Would someone tell me why m’here an’ not with my unit in Hyogo?” 

Scripted words fall from his mouth in a drawl, pulling predictable coughs and raised eyebrows. “Don’ hack up a lung on my accoun’.” He crosses his arms, slouching out of his rigid stance to let air into his lungs. “Ya need me fer a mission or wha’, Cap’n Meian?”

“Miya.” The captain greets him simply, calmly, shaking his hand with an iron fist and letting it escape– like Kita did, years ago. “Welcome to MSBY. We’re the Black Jackals unit.”

Atsumu grits his teeth– he _knows_ this, even though he shouldn’t. “Than’s, I guess.” Fingernails curl into his palms, a familiar scrape of keratin against skin that grounds him amidst a typhoon of confusion and anger. “So, wha’ can I do for ya? And where’s yer sixth?”

“Sakusa’s off preparing for his mission,” Bokuto says, blinding grin easing some of the agitation scurrying in Atsumu’s veins. “We’re on standby for an extraction if things go to hell. I’m Bokuto, by the way– artillery and weapons specialist.”

Atsumu’s mouth moves on its own. “I’ve heard of ya.” But his mind runs off with the name _Sakusa,_ conjuring a shadow of whispers, dark save for the sheen of a metal sword. “Steel Bastard’s goin’ on another stealth mish?”

“Don’t call him that to his face.” Inunaki scoffs, and doesn’t smile. “How’d you know it’s a stealth mish?”

Atsumu guffaws to hide his mistake. “Lucky guess, Mr. Crane.” He turns away from the raised eyebrows, towards Barnes and Tomas. “Fron’ and rear guards, righ’?” The answering nods are wary, so he tries to divert the tension– easing it has never been his forte. “S’good ta meetcha, though I wish tha situation was differen’.” 

Meian nods. “As do we.” He strolls to power on the console in the center of the room, projecting holographic data in an oval around it. Maps, files, and photographs flicker to life with the familiarity of a noose around Atsumu’s neck. “HQ picked up signals originating around Haneda. They’re strong and stationary, so they’ve sent our best stealth operative– Sakusa– to investigate and eliminate the threat.”

“My specialties’re strategy and close combat, not stealth.” Atsumu’s gloved fingers carve into the map, expanding it to view the extraction area– the coastline forms a jagged line of beach mixed with concrete debris and semi-collapsed subway tunnels. “I can do sneaky, but s’never subtle.”

“Once Sakusa’s killed the targets, the stealth element will likely be gone.” Tomas swipes the mission brief over to him. 

Atsumu just swipes it back, not bothering to read it. “With all due respec’–” gods, do the unscripted words taste foreign in his mouth– “my orders depend on wha’ _ya_ say, _not_ wha’ some floatin’ paper says I shoul’ do.” That, at least, earns him some smiles. “Sneaky an’ unsubtle is how we’re gonna get Steel Bastard out alive. Tha’s why m’here.”

He’s also gonna _die_ here, but there’s no time to dwell on that. He strides over to the empty cot he _knows_ is his, shrugs off his daypack and turns back to the Jackals. “Who’s go’ tha honor of showin’ me ‘round?”

“That’d be me, Tsum-tsum!” One of Bokuto’s huge arms slings over Atsumu’s shoulders. “Let’s get you over to the arena for your gear.” 

A ghost of a smile stretches over Atsumu’s face, steering him towards the inevitable. “Gemme geared up.”

# ***

When Atsumu drawls, “Ya better lighten up, alrigh’,” it’s a reminder for himself more than the Black Jackals. “Trust tha’ Sakusa’s doin’ ‘is job. We’ll bail ‘im outta hell, an’ ya got me ta help ya.”

_Ya go’ me ‘til m’breathin’ my last– however long tha’ is._

Bokuto offers him a thumbs up. He raps the side of his helmet, mouth moving silently on a comm channel before switching back so Atsumu can hear. “Keiji says thanks for having our backs.” 

Atsumu's entire body itches under his Shell. Beneath synthetic metals and fibers and skin, despair churns– as he knows the ocean surface will in just a few minutes. Kita’s mantra falls from his mouth, butchered on autopilot as he waits for the radar to ping again and the bay doors to open. This time, he dives out to face his fate head-on. 

He follows the path marked on the inside of his helmet that guides him to where he'll land on crumbling pavement. But his gaze switches from one peripheral to the other– confirming that yes, it’s two in the morning again, and yes, his Shell is fully equipped with spare ammunition and swords. Clouds wisp past him as he falls into the Tokyo Dead Zone: hell in the form of a concrete jungle.

His hover engines slow his descent to a crawl, feet touching down on ashen asphalt. “M’on tha ground. Approachin’ tha entry poin’, over.” He nestles the stock of his ion rifle into his arm, powering up the energy cannons, spires of metal rising from his shoulders and aiming towards sloshing seafoam.

“Mimic signatures rising to your east, Atsu,” Inunaki announces through the comm. “Fifty klicks and closing in fast.”

Copper splits along Atsumu’s tongue where he bites it. “I coun’ twelve of ‘em,” he drawls, spewing fact like lies as his fingers make a home over the trigger of his rifle.

Sound fades out around the thunder in his ears. Distantly, he’s aware that Inunaki says four mimics make it through, and that Sakusa’s on his way. “Roger tha’. Lemme know when yer clear.” 

Energy blasts erupt on the moonlit horizon, glowing pale blue-white over frothing, black glass. Three mimics close in on Atsumu over waves. Quick, well-timed pulseshots bring one of the aliens down. The others screech, chittering loudly, but the sound is muted as Atsumu only listens for the sound of air rushing in and out of his lungs– a sign that his pulse drums on. 

Pulsar sprays forth from his ion rifle as he runs backwards in a path he _knows_ is clear. His hover engines carry him up, up, and still he shoots, until one mimic collapses into sand– he sends two more pulsar shots in its direction– he’s got time for that much– as he throws himself another meter into the air so snakelike mimic limbs don’t snag his ankle. 

Atsumu’s left hand fans out, wrist flicking slightly to deploy the spikes buried in the guard. Thin chopsticks flare forth, casting a crackling net of energy that slices through the mimic. Acidic blood splatters over his helmet as the alien is torn to shreds.

His feet thud into sand. Keeping his helmet on– that mistake cost him two lives before this one– he obeys instinct, dropping and rolling to the left. Acid flies over his head as he deploys two ammo reloads on the uptick. He swaps one reload into his ion rifle as he rises to his knees, lunging forward as he tosses the other towards the mimics approaching him from the sea. 

His eyes trace the arc. One pull of the trigger detonates the energy cartridge with the force of a grenade, mimics swallowed up with white fire.

_“You.”_

It’s a stranger’s voice that flows over the comm channel, but Atsumu recognizes the Steel Bastard’s sharp tone. He’s heard it before. And though he stumbles back from the heatwave of the grenade blast, his eyes dart knowingly to the left– 

To the figure with a sonar sword dripping indigo on his shoulder, ion rifle holstered across his back. His helmet is cracked over his visor, dark blood spattered over the jaw of his Shell. 

“Who’re you?”

Atsumu remembers to fire his energy cannons behind him, stilling a hiss of movement into the _smack_ of a dead mimic hitting sand. “Miya,” he pants, adrenaline sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Ya mus’ be Sakusa.”

“Duck.”

Atsumu drops like a stone, immediately rotating onto his back in the sand. He aims his ion rifle up, tracking for movement. In his peripheral, Sakusa dips into a kneel, sonar sword punched overhead– a mimic sails over them, spraying acid where Atsumu was just standing. Atsumu fires his ion rifle once, twice– cutting off the scream as black limbs flounder in silt, then fall silent. 

“Sakusa’s out,” Atsumu calls into the comm. “On our way to tha rendezvous.” 

Inunaki’s voice fizzles over the channel. “They’re swarming towards you!” 

Sakusa rips off his helmet’s busted visor, dark eyes gleaming as they peer into Atsumu’s. “You,” he says again– still accusatory, as though Atsumu hasn’t already died _twice_ trying to save the bastard– _“You_ ended up with it.”

Atsumu is already turning on his heels, readying for a retreat. His helmet’s radar pings, spiking with a maroon glow– a cluster of eight mimics veer towards them, fencing them in against a wave of five from the seaside. “C’mon,” he shouts over the echo of those words in his head, a surge of blame with white-hot fury riding its coattails. “Yer team’s waitin’!” 

“They’ll have to wait longer.” Sakusa flips the hilt of his sword around in his palm. “Come find me when you wake up.” He pivots on one foot, bringing the blade down behind him and deploying a sonar burst.

Atsumu’s cry of _“Wha’?”_ is obliterated by the sound wave. It shrills the mimics behind them into a momentary halt– during which Sakusa shoots a careful spray of pulsar ammo. Severed snake-trunk limbs shudder into sand, but still the aliens mob them, acid drenching the silt beneath their feet.

Atsumu fires his energy cannons over the ocean, bringing five mimics to three, but it’s not enough. He turns to Sakusa, clutching his ion rifle in his hands– hands that know if he futzes the trigger just right, he can dispatch the mimics in a miniature supernova. 

Sakusa glances at the twitch of Atsumu’s thumb. “Come find me when you wake up,” he repeats, imitating the gesture with his rifle to deploy a starburst of his own. 

They take thirteen mimics with them, crumbling to ash and stardust as they’re engulfed in a black hole–

A black hole that spits Atsumu– and _only_ Atsumu– out on the other side.

# ***

Atsumu wakes to the humming whir of a hovercraft engine, copper in his mouth, and words on his tongue. Tugged conscious on his feet, his spine zings with energy– not lightning, like he’d previously thought– but leftover radiance from pulsar ammunition blasts, deadly enough to fry his nerves with urgency.

_Come find me when you wake up._

An image of dark eyes gleams behind his eyelids. A void dressed in armor, carrying a sword over his shoulder, edge emblazoned in mimic blood.

_Find me._

Atsumu watches too-green cadets fiddle with tablets and the stocks of their weapons. None too casual, he steps to the exit, pushing it open to slip through.

He lets the door bang shut behind him– subtlety has never been his strong suit– and starts running. As he’s been given a tour of the MSBY grounds at least three times, led personally to the arena by the Beam Weapon himself… he knows his way around fairly well. Shrugging out of his stiff, formal uniform, he discards it behind some bins– his standard issue combat underlayer will help him blend in just fine. 

_Find me._

Atsumu grits his teeth. _Jus’ ya wait, ya Steel Bastard. Jus’ wai’._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you’re enjoying the story so far(^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, if you like the story and characterization, or the ouch ranking on a 1-10 scale;;; ^^'
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


	4. DAY ONE - KIYOOMI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mind drifts out of its carefully constructed fog, eyes blinking open to a figure clad in the standard issue black undershell, ion rifle peeking over his shoulder. His chest strains against synthetic fibers and metal as he breathes fast– as if he _ran_ here, to the last place anyone should want to be.

Kiyoomi is an expert at tuning out the sound of his own breathing. 

He inhales, nothing more than a whisper of oxygen, and exhales a murmur of carbon dioxide. Weapons clanging as part of simulation training, the hiss of Shells as synthetic fibers and metal knit together, the crackle of sparks as armor is repaired– all fade behind a special frequency filter, designed to only let in noises he needs to hear. 

The sizzle of his energy weapons as he fires them, index finger wrapped around the trigger as he aims, keeping a silent eye on when he needs to reload. The _shick_ of his sonar sword deploying from his right calf, the familiar thud of the hilt in his palm as he grips it, slashing it in an arc. The hum of a mimic’s movement, lethal intent coiling beyond his eyes’ awareness as he’s designated as a target. 

Sweat beads on his forehead, concrete under his fingers having warmed under his touch. It’s a delicate balance, to maintain the plank– abdomen tight but still loose enough to breathe, fingers splayed out to stabilize his weight as he hovers a third of a meter off the ground. He’s cleared his mind, folding stray thoughts behind brick walls, plastering to seal away details irrelevant to his mission.

Mimic signals were detected near the ruins of Haneda Airport, half-flooded by the bay. He’s received orders to scour the tunnels, searching for an alpha mimic– the rarer type of the creatures that possesses the ability to reset time. 

A lifetime ago, that power had fallen into his hands, bled into his veins along with an acute responsibility for countless lives beyond his own… and after some years worth of days, it bled right back out. 

_What would the All-Japan Defense Forces give in the hopes of turning the tides in this war?_

Kiyoomi’s eyebrows twitch, the left one dipping into the slightest of furrows. They decided to give _Kiyoomi’s life_ – volunteered him to see whether he could kill another alpha and begin a cycle of death all over again–

Faintly, he registers footsteps shuffling into his ring of the arena. Boots tread past concrete columns, echoing off the floor and coming to a stop a meter or two away. 

_Sakusa. Uhh, Sakusa?_

An unfamiliar voice sidles up to the edges of his filter, rapping against the outside in lazy desperation. 

_Steel– wai’, m’not s’posed ta call ya tha’. Sakusa. Saaaaaakusaaaaa._

Kiyoomi’s jaw clenches. Slowly, he lowers himself back to concrete, pushing into a cobra stretch to relax the tension in his obliques and deltoids. His mind drifts out of its carefully constructed fog, eyes blinking open to a figure clad in the standard issue black undershell, ion rifle peeking over his shoulder. His chest strains against synthetic fibers and metal as he breathes fast– as if he _ran_ here, to the last place anyone should want to be. 

The battle-tried and true body is topped off with dusty, dandelion-dyed hair, a thinly scarred left cheek and the tip of a tongue sticking out from the corner of lips curved into a semblance of a frown– if one could frown and smirk at the same time. Muddy eyes peer into his, blinking as his presence is finally acknowledged. 

Kiyoomi sighs, rising to his feet in one fluid movement. “Yes?” 

His hands twitch at his sides, and he ignores the urge to curl them into fists– instead reaching up to curl the few long, wavy strands of hair that escaped his bun behind his ear. “Who said you could talk to me?”

The man before him inches one eyebrow up. _“Ya_ did. T’morrow.”

_What._

Kiyoomi narrows his gaze, confusion curving his mouth into a frown– until understanding carves it deeper.

“At tha beach. We meet,” the stranger drawls, his voice flooding Kiyoomi’s veins with ice.

Four short sentences. That’s all it takes for the backs of his knees to weaken, his nerves crumbling to shreds. His initial relief is short-lived– while _he_ is no longer responsible for finding and killing the alpha, as it’s already been taken care of– he’s left the troubling role of becoming an essential crutch, a shoulder to assist the man before him in bearing a burden worse than Atlas’s. 

Kiyoomi’s lower lip trembles, quivering once before he cuts it off. “Walk with me.” He picks up his energy sword, slinging the sheath over his back and buckling the leather clasp over his undershell. “Don’t speak of this to anyone else.” He leads the man towards the med bay, not letting surprise flicker as the other falls quickly into step with him. “How much do you know?”

“M’not sure how much I’m s’posed ta know, since this’s tha only time ‘ve actually talked to ya the pas’ three days withou’ dyin’?” 

_So it’s day four, and he’s already managed to convince my future self to talk to him– well… it’s not like either of us have a choice._

“When you talked to me…” Kiyoomi forces the words out, past tongue and teeth and into the open. “What did I say?”

“Ya tol’ me ta find ya when I woke up, which s’why m’here.” The man who hasn't given Kiyoomi his name yet crosses his arms, folding his hands beneath his triceps. “Ya also said– all accusin’ly– ‘bout _me_ endin’ up with somethin’. Didja mean the–” his voice dips into a whisper. “Power?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “That’d be the logical conclusion.” Med bay doors part for them automatically, and they stride down the hall, taking the second right and ducking into the third room on the left. 

It's the only place in the entire med bay Kiyoomi trusts– not simply for its sanitation standards, but because of the familiar face peering at them through holo-screens at a desk. 

Komori Motoya immediately swipes the screens away, pushing away from his stance at his standing desk. “Saku,” he murmurs, offering a smile. “Good to see you.” His gaze flicks to the blond– eyes widening in surprise. “You’re one of the Miyas.” 

If Kiyoomi isn’t mistaken, there’s an undercurrent of awe written into the name. 

Miya chuckles, turning back to Kiyoomi with a sheepish smile that’s entirely irrational given their current predicament. “My reputation precedes me,” he drawls, but extends a hand for Komori to shake. “‘M Atsumu.”

Komori’s pale hand falls victim to the bronze of Miya’s, only for a few seconds. “Dr. Komori Motoya. Clinical pathology, advanced microbiology.” He extracts his hand from Miya’s, eyes sliding back to Kiyoomi’s in concern. “What can I do for you?”

Kiyoomi sighs. He gestures vaguely in Miya’s direction. “He’s _me._ Before Chiyoda.”

Recognition flickers in Komori’s eyes. He turns to Miya, lifting an arm behind his back. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Miya’s raised left eyebrow tugs the scar on his cheek up just slightly. “This’s my firs’ time meetin’ ya, so I dunno.” He shrugs, slouching his weight to lean more heavily on his right foot. 

Komori reveals his hidden hand, index and middle fingers protruding from his palm in a v. 

“Two, huh. I‘ll keep tha’ in mind fer tomorrow.” 

Miya’s blase attitude irks Kiyoomi– scratches gratingly against battle scars bound to be torn open. As if tomorrow and the day after and the day after that one, too– the cycle of death is inescapable.

“For now, wha’ can ya tell me ‘bout wha’s happenin’ ta me?”

Komori glances at Kiyoomi– and, upon receiving a direct, slow blink, opens his mouth. “Some time in the past few days, you must’ve killed an alpha mimic. They’re slightly more agile and are distinguished by their flesh, which appears more navy in color, as well as their blood– cerulean, bioluminescent acid.”

Miya’s arms uncurl from their crossed position, thumb and index finger reaching behind his back to linger above his undershell at the base of his spine. The digits twitch once, then drift carefully back to his sides. “Yeh. Tha firs’ time on tha beach.” His eyes close, staying shut a fraction longer than a blink before shuddering open. “Haven’ seen one since I got tha power. Wha’s it mean?”

His muddy eyes flick between Kiyoomi and Komori, but fixate on Kiyoomi. “S’true, isn't it? To keep tryin’ again, ta save tha worl’...” He swallows, and when he speaks again, he’s tucked his accent away– as if he’s buried that fragment of himself so deep that mimics won’t ever be able to steal it, even as they tear him apart, limb by limb, over and over– 

“To keep the power, I have to die.”

# ***

Kiyoomi has long had a private comm channel installed in his Shell. It’s meant for reassuring blips of static, to log mission data for him to return to later, for sleepless nights when he needs to be alone, but not entirely.

He isn’t expecting to have to patch Miya into it– but they need to speak without being overheard. 

The drop ship is a hum at the edges of Kiyoomi’s sound filter. Hover engines whisper, carrying him and Miya towards the ruins of Haneda Airport. 

“How long were ya…” Miya stands less than a meter away from him in the cabin, one hand clutching a handle to stay upright. His other arm is wound around his waist, fingers toying the panel of his Shell that hides an energy ammo reload. “Y’know.” He jerks his elbow vaguely. “Trapped?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to think about it. How many mistakes he made, how it felt like he’d aged years when he finally stumbled half-dead into tomorrow and _lived_ through it. The survivor’s guilt, the residual trauma, how he has to rely on screens to tell him what day it is– to convince himself that time is passing.

So he retorts with a pointed, “You don’t want to know.”

“S’that an ‘I’m not telling ya today’ or an ‘I’m not tellin’ ya, _ever?’”_

“Yes.” 

The bay doors slide open, allowing icy air into the cabin. A map blooms to life within Kiyoomi’s helmet, silver gridlines threading across the inside of his visor, the landing destination ringed with a glowing, white circle. 

“Remind me what your specialties are.” Kiyoomi’s request is met with a surprisingly analytical stare– inciting bitterness to spill forth. “Surely you have at least one.” 

“Oh, we’re not jus’ talkin’ time-resettin’.” Miya chuckles, warmth rankling the back of Kiyoomi’s neck. “Close an’ mid-range combat, squad strikes. Other than tha’, strategy.”

_Teamwork. He’s used to fighting with someone covering his back, trusting someone to protect it just as he protects theirs._

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath. “Follow _my_ lead. You’ve only had limited stealth training, so it’s important that you step where I step. Don’t speak– and don’t shoot unless you have no other options.”

“Bossy, aren’tcha.” Miya wraps a hand around the harness of his ion rifle, near-identical to the one slung across Kiyoomi’s back. He waves at the open bay door, into the star-filled darkness above the lower cloud line, the hint of a smirk pushing his scarred cheek into view within his visor. “After _ya.”_

Kiyoomi looses his grip on the ceiling supports, stepping into a run down the bay platform and diving out into the clutches of midnight. The display inside his visor pings, alerting him to Miya’s presence– together they fall through clouds, plummeting past the lower line of water vapor before buildings are more clearly visible. 

He nudges the hover engines at his feet into gear, adjusting the angle of descent to cover more distance. Winds graze his Shell, erasing leftover droplets from his visor as he approaches the landing site, and he switches to power the hover engines at his back, curving into an upright position and cutting off the lower engines for a quiet touchdown. 

Miya does mostly the same– he cuts off the engines at his feet, folding neatly into a front flip and then stalling his progress with the hovers on his back. Synthetic metal soles rasp against blacktop dusted with ash as he lands, mirroring the silence of Kiyoomi’s arrival.

They’re on the inland side of the airport on what remains of the landing strip. Ocean breezes roll in from Kiyoomi’s right, the echo of waves crashing against the shore emerging from the chasm at their feet. 

His Shell’s display switches over to dim green as it scans the ground beneath them, sensors reading debris to plot the safest course of travel. He turns to Miya, inclines his chin in a brief nod, and leaps into the abyss before them, hover engines hissing alive once more. 

The gaping maw of layered concrete and dirt has rusted pipes for teeth, saltwater saliva pooling at the bottom. Kiyoomi tests a piece of angled concrete in the middle of it with his foot. Upon it not moving under half his weight, he cuts off his hover engines, balancing on the edge as he urges his sonar sword from its sheath. 

Hybrid leather thuds into his waiting palm as he detects mimic movements below the surface. 

Miya, wisely, does not touch down. His own sonar swords pop into his hands as he floats, awaiting Kiyoomi’s instructions.

The concrete shifts beneath Kiyoomi’s feet, and he launches himself several meters up, into a backflip and halts halfway through it, breath catching in his lungs as a mimic explodes out of the water. 

Kiyoomi readies his sword, aiming to dive down, when Miya clangs his sonar swords in an X below him, a single pulse of sound to stall the raving creature– but also alerting others to their presence. He sighs, trading his sword for his ion rifle. “Find me again tomorrow.”

“Don’tcha mean yesterday?” Miya deploys another sonar burst, the wave roaring through this little iota of the underworld.

“Fuck you.” Kiyoomi grits his teeth, even as his fingers close on the trigger and open fire– body conditioned to stay alive, despite the futility of it all.

“Not interested!” 

A cluster of mimics swarms from above. Miya’s laugh is the last thing Kiyoomi hears before the cave is mottled with fresh copper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you’re enjoying the story so far(^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, if you like the story and characterization, or the ouch ranking on a 1-10 scale;;; ^^'
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


End file.
